In that era shrouded in war, I, a Japanese military doctor, became a messenger of death, and in a hidden laboratory in North China, I personally pushed 11 suffering Eighth Route Army soldiers onto the dissecting table.
This scene lingers in my mind like a ghost - their eyes are full of perseverance and unyielding to life, like stars in the darkness that will not be extinguished. These eyes pierced my conscience, and made me, a military doctor who once prided himself calm and fearless, unable to let go of it for the rest of my life.
At that time, my name was Yutaka Takeuchi, an executioner in a white coat, who was dispatched to the Jinan branch of the North China Epidemic Prevention and Water Supply Department to be responsible for the secret development of a germ weapon. Captain Okada, a military doctor, entrusted me with this task in the name of the country, and I accepted it, with a heart that was both excited and apprehensive.
These soldiers of the Eighth Route Army, their clothes were ragged and their faces were haggard, but those high-spirited fighting spirit and firm eyes made me feel an unprecedented shock.
I thought my experiments would make a career, but in those days, I saw how life struggled under illness and scalpels, and how it found hope in despair. Their courage and tenacity still strike me in awe.
I am here not only to tell the story of that dark history, but also to explore how neglected souls have maintained their dignity and faith under extreme conditions. Through the excavation of my personal memories and the rummaging of historical archives, I will take you into that terrifying laboratory - uncovering the human brilliance and moral sinking behind it.
During those years of iron and fire, my hands never stopped, injecting syringes laden with deadly germs into the scrawny warriors. Their condition deteriorated rapidly, and every symptom was meticulously documented in my observation notes. However, in documenting their suffering, what I didn't expect was that something deep in my soul was also quietly disintegrating.
There was a moment when I watched as a warrior tried to comfort his companion despite a high fever and cough, his eyes shining with indomitable hope and a sparkle of hope. The sight hurt me, and I began to question my actions, but my doubts were insignificant in the face of the harsh war machine.
I have to admit that the spiritual strength of those warriors, even in the midst of extreme hardship, has not dissipated. They are fighting not only physical illness, but also spiritual fear. And I, as the executor of the experiment, was also destroyed in this experiment.
Now, through these words, I try not only to testify to the courage and sacrifice of those warriors, but also to leave a confession for my crimes. I have read the literature on the laws of war and human rights, and I know that even in war, there is an insurmountable moral bottom line. However, at that time, the line seemed to be covered with a layer of dust.
I still remember a soldier who, in the last moments of his life, struggled and wrote a few words: "Even so, I have no regrets." "His persistence and courage are something I will never learn in my life.
This article is not only my memoir, but also a profound reflection on history. In today's times of peace, we should remember history, not to incite hatred, but to prevent the tragedy of history from repeating itself. May the souls of those who have passed away rest in peace, and may we who are alive learn a valuable lesson from this history.